


What Goes Around

by grey2510



Series: Misc SPN Works (<15k words) [26]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Eldritch beings, Fae & Fairies, Gen, Olivette is still a hamster, vaguely post season 13/14
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 16:51:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14981423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/pseuds/grey2510
Summary: Claire is on a case with frozen bodies at the Stanley Hotel when she gets some help from an unexpected source.





	What Goes Around

**Author's Note:**

> [Art](https://pherryt.tumblr.com/post/175112555536/what-goes-around-by-grey2510supernatural-words) by the awesome [pherryt](https://pherryt.tumblr.com/). Make sure you show them some love!

  


If it were the deep of winter, she could enter wherever she pleased. But as the days lengthen towards midsummer, she must feel for the places where the barriers are...looser.

That is, if "place" is truly an adequate term.

She closes her eye, reaching out from within herself. _Hello, old friend._

The Being sends out cold, dark tendrils, like calling to like, welcoming her. They wrap around her, bringing her to its world. She smiles, her rust-stained teeth wolfish and sharp, and sinks into the embrace.

She can feel the heat of summer on her skin when she crosses over—the mortals' artificial winter air a paltry force compared to her power. The Being's tentacles release her, though they linger on her in a caress.

Opening her eye, she sends a burst of ice-sharp air forth. The force crackles from under her frost-blue skin and through her palms. Her white hair floats around her like a horrible halo.

Before her, three unsuspecting mortals are frozen like statues. Ice and frost coat them inches thick, their eyes and mouths are wide with shock and terror.

She lowers her hands and the gust subsides.

The cold tendrils retreat from her, but not in fear. She and The Being have been in existence for far too long for such pettiness. Its job done, The Being settles back into itself, curling around its many parts and the mortals foolish enough to come here.

She cares nothing for those mortals. There is only one she seeks. She will collect what she is due.

The ice her footsteps leave behind glitters like diamonds on the carpet.

  


***

  


As Claire's little maroon hatchback pulls into the parking lot, the hairs on her arms immediately stand up and her hunter spidey senses tingle. If Maine's as fucked up as Stephen King says, then he must have felt like this place was home away from home.

 _It's just a story,_ she tries to tell herself as she parks and makes her way to the lobby.

 _Yeah, and now there's a case with human popsicles here. Sure that's just a coincidence,_ the other half of her brain chimes in oh-so helpfully.

The Stanley Hotel is busy with guests and families, but Claire can tell in the faces of the staff that they're on edge. She overhears a concierge apologetically explaining to a guest that everything is under control and the hotel will be happy to compensate them for having to switch rooms while the wing they were in is closed off.

She makes her way to the elevators and up to the second floor, following the signs to Room 217. There's a line of yellow police tape and an office guarding the end of the hall, presumably to keep rubberneckers away from the crime scene. Squaring her shoulders and digging out her badge, she approaches the officer, who glances at it, narrows her eyes at Claire, but nods and lifts the tape so Claire can duck under.

There isn't much to see: the bodies of the victims have already been taken away, and though the air is still chilly enough to make Claire regret the light blouse under her blazer, most of the evidence has melted. A forensic photographer is taking pictures of what appear to be footprints, still wet in the carpet. Claire pulls out a pair of rubber gloves as she looks around; she's learned that the actual authorities tend not to question anyone already on this side of the tape if they're gloved and not asking too many questions. Fly under the radar. Jody can say she's reckless all she wants, and maybe she's not wrong, but Claire can do a lot more than just charge in, guns blazing (though that's more fun). In the hotel room, Claire spies three large patches of damp carpet that can only be the former locations of the bodies.

Nothing about this gives her a clue as to what the hell happened, unless the Abominable Snowman is on vacation in Colorado to see his buddy, Sasquatch. She grumbles to herself; this is going to mean research. Lots of research. Maybe she'll just call Sam and see if she can get him to do it for her… He's like Monster Google.

"Nothing on the tapes?" a woman in a pantsuit asks a uniformed officer.

He shakes his head. "No, everything went blurry and staticky. You can kind of make out the shape of someone walking down the hall, but…" He shrugs.

"Can't salvage it?"

"I'unno, Detective. I can send it over to Tech for you, but I don't think it'll do anything."

Claire stops listening once the conversation drifts off into police procedure, instead focusing on a man with a notebook just outside the room, interviewing a boy of about thirteen while his parents (she presumes) stand by in defense and support. The boy's voice is shaking and his bony legs look like they're about to collapse under him.

"She was... _blue_ , but not like she had paint on her, but really _blue_ ," he says, glancing at his mother for backup.

The man with the notebook's brow furrows but he nods and jots that down. "Uh huh, and what color did you say her hair was?"

"White."

"So she was elderly?"

"I...I don't know." The boy's lower lip trembles. "I...I heard a noise, like a, like a bad storm and then it was cold and I thought maybe there was something wrong with A/C or something so I looked out the, uh…"

"The peephole?" the man prompts.

"Yeah, and I, that's when I saw her…"

"Can you tell me anything else about her?"

The boy shakes his head. "No. No, just that it was _cold_."

 _Huh, maybe I wasn't too off with the Abominable Snowman. More like Snowwoman. Snowlady?_ Claire considers getting closer, to listen more, but the detective is starting to move her way, probably with the same idea, and Claire decides she's got enough info to scoot before she has to explain that yes, she is old enough to buy a beer (finally) and be a FBI agent (kinda), and yes, Claire Gordon is her real name (and no, she definitely did _not_ steal Batgirl's last name), and of _course_ they can call her supervisor (and wouldn't Jody just _love_ to get another one of those phone calls... Maybe Claire should give them Donna's number this time).

  


There isn't enough money in the world to make her want to stay in the Stanley Hotel (she isn't one of those dumbasses like the Ghostfacers who's gonna spend a night locked in a haunted place by _choice_ just to see what nasty ghoulie or Casper makes a special visit), and so she drives all the way back down the mountain to her motel room. It's the worst kind of tacky; she's pretty sure Dean would love it, though. For some reason, the proprietor decided that what a Colorado ski-town needed was a Mexican wrestling-themed motel. Above the bed is a shadow box with a blue and silver mask, and if it wasn't flanked with ridiculous blown-up photos of famous wrestlers and fights, she might find it kind of creepy with its empty eyes.

Instead, she just ignores it—she'd given it the requisite snort and eye-roll last night when she'd checked in—and just changes out of her Fed suit, grabs her laptop, and climbs on top of the bed, her back up against the headboard and her ankles crossed in front of her.  

Her computer takes a millenium to connect to the motel's wifi (she nearly digs out her phone and considers killing her data to set up a hotspot, but the service here is spotty as it is), during which time she only manages mentally to rule out ghosts and poltergeists, even with the boy's insistence on how cold it was. Unless the Winchesters have been hiding the boss level ghosts from her, she's pretty sure that even a particularly pissed off poltergeist can't pull an evil Elsa like that.

So, she's back to Abominable Snowpersonoflikelyfemalegender. Super helpful.

She's half-way through typing in "snow monsters" for lack of anywhere else to start her search when there's a knock on the door. Without hesitating, she slides the computer off her lap and grabs her angel sword from her duffel, thinking for not the first time that she really needs to get an angel blade from the guys. The sword's awesome and badass, but it's a lot less subtle or portable. But, it's still more subtle than a gun.

Unlike the boy at the hotel, Claire can't see shit out of the busted peephole in her door, so she calls out, "Who is it?"

"A friend, dear," a woman's voice with an accent—Scottish? Irish?—replies. "I know what you're hunting, Claire Novak. I want to help."

Claire stills. She didn't check in under her name, so how the hell does this person know who she is? Cautiously, keeping her grip on the sword tight, she cracks open the door as far as the chain will allow, revealing a short, red-haired woman with oversized cat-eye sunglasses carrying a large, boxy bag.    

"I ordered a pizza, not a friend, but thanks," Claire snarks. "Who the hell are you, Shorty?"

"Shorty? As if you're some galumphing giantess yourself," the woman retorts.

"Still not a name."

"Rowena. Rowena MacLeod. I believe we have some common acquaintances: the Winchesters."

"Never heard of you. If this is some stupid plan to track them down by going through their friends, I don't know where they are and even if I did—"

Rowena waves off Claire's concerns while lifting up her sunglasses and pushing her hair back with them. "Oh please. I could call Samuel this moment and invite him to tea and he'd come a-runnin', the dear boy." She winks a little too knowingly for Claire's taste. "I'd invite Dean, too, but I don't think tea's his...well, cup of tea."

"Uh huh. What are you?"

"A witch," Rowena answers with a cheerfully sly grin. "A witch who would much prefer having this conversation indoors and not in a blistering hot parking lot."

Claire moves so that the witch can see the angel blade she's been holding behind the door. "How do you know Sam and Dean?"

"Well, most recently, I helped Dean expel the archangel Michael to save his perfectly-shaped arse."

Claire'd heard about that in bits and pieces through Jody and the grapevine. "That was you?"

"Aye."

"Fine." Claire closes the door just enough to slide the chain off and reopens it to let the witch in. She sits back down on the bed, but keeps the sword by her.

Rowena strides in and looks around at the room's decor, smirking at the luchadors, before returning her attention to Claire. "I see you and the Winchesters have similar taste, or lack thereof."

"I never said I _liked_ this." She's aiming for a sneer but she thinks she might have landed on a pout. Awesome.

"I was referring to the flannel, love."

Claire glares at her. "Don't worry: I'll play you the tiniest violin if you break a nail."

Rowena's cat-like grin widens as she sets down the bag on the floor. "This is going to be fun. Pity you don't have a scrap of magical talent. Always looking for a new protégé, share my gifts."

Claire raises an eyebrow. "You mean 'minion'."

"'Minion' lacks a certain _je ne sais quoi._ Besides, feisty thing like you, I doubt you'd be a mere lickspittle."

"Gross." Claire crosses her arms. "What do you want, Rowena?"

"To help. I know what killed those poor people at the hotel." Rowena peruses the motel's instant coffee and tea selection, choosing an Earl Grey tea bag and a paper cup that she fills with water from the sink. The room is equipped with a microwave, but instead of using it, Rowena mutters something in a language Claire doesn't understand and faint wisps of steam rise from the cup.

"Yeah, you said that. Still haven't given me any information."

Rowena takes a sip and crinkles her nose. "Never as good as a proper kettle, but it'll do. What I'd give for a spot of honey and milk."

"The case, Rowena."

"Yes, yes." She settles on a chair and crosses one leg over the other. "What you're hunting, her name is Beira. She's one of the Fae."

"The Fae? Like, fairies? You're telling me we're hunting freaking Tinkerbell?"

Rowena's eyes narrow. "You Americans have no respect for the Fae. They're not to be trifled with. Beira is the Queen of Winter, a goddess. In her world, _the_ goddess. And if she's here, she's come with a purpose."

Claire shifts on the bed, planting her feet more firmly on the ground. "Alright, how do we kill her?"

The witch scoffs. "Kill her? We can't kill her. And even if we could, another Queen would take her place and if there's one thing I don't want to meddle in, it's the Fae court."

"Alright, so what _do_ we do?"

"Well, you're in luck: I know why she's here. And I have who she wants." Setting her tea on the corner of the TV stand, Rowena reaches down into the bag on the floor with both hands and pulls out a clear plastic container with a pink, grated lid. And inside is—

"A _hamster_?" Claire blinks. "You're telling me the freakin' Queen of the Fairies or whatever is after a Petco special?"

Rowena scowls as the hamster scratches at the glass. Claire realizes she should be able to hear the little furball squeaking but it's completely silent, and only then does she notice the faint etchings in the glass.

"This is no ordinary hamster, girl. This is, or was, the High Priestess of the Grand Coven." She holds up the tank. "Olivette, say hello to Claire Novak, fearsome hunter. What's that? Can't speak? What a shame."

Claire just stares at the little act, an eyebrow raised.

Rowena shrugs and settles the tank back down on the floor next to the bag. "Olivette and I have had our disagreements in the past, shall we say. We get along much better now."

"Did you turn her into a hamster?" Claire asks dryly.

"Bygones. I prefer to think of the future, which will be a great deal chillier and unpleasant if we don't appease Beira."

"What'd furface ever do to Beira?"

The hamster scratches at the glass even more, then sits back on its haunches and looks up at Claire in what can only be considered deep annoyance.

"Well, last I heard, our wee friend made a deal with the Fae Queen to give her the power to bind _my_ power. I can only assume that since I've thrown off those horrid shackles, Beira has come to collect on her end of the deal."

Claire's hand moves ever so slightly towards the sword. The High Priestess of the Grand Coven had to make a deal with a Fae Queen to get enough power to bind this witch, who is now free of that curse? Oh yeah, that sounds super awesome and not at all sketchy.

Rowena catches the movement and frowns. "Honestly, you hunters are so untrusting. _I_ was the wronged party here! And ever since I've removed the curse, I've been one of the good guys. Clean record."

"Clean record?"

"Maybe a parking ticket. That's all." Rowena picks up her tea again and sips delicately.

Claire decides she doesn't want to know if Rowena's being literal or not, and if she isn't, what the witchy equivalent of a parking ticket is. Hard pass. 

"So, what do we do? Wait till Beira finds us or kills someone else? Or can we like summon her or something?"

There's something very punchable about Rowena's grin, but Claire restrains herself. See? Maturity. Suck it, Jody.

 

(Just kidding, Jody.)

  


***

  


She's close. The mortal is close, and yet, the lifeforce is fainter, different somehow. Beira's frost-blue eye narrows as she focuses her senses. Everything in this world is so muddled, especially in the heat of summer, but it is no matter: she will find the witch Olivette and take what is owed her.

There's a flash of purple in her mind from the direction of the witch's aura. A summoning. What mortal would summon her? For the power does not come from her prey, and yet it feels familiar.

Bidden by the summoning, Beira emerges in a room not unlike the one she crossed over in, but far less lavish, by human standards. Before her stands a mortal girl, but with the faint touch of an angel in her blood. She holds a sword in her hand, one that Beira thinks might not be entirely useless against her. While it's not made of iron or steel, its angelic properties would certainly hurt.

_Interesting._

The other woman, though, is the summoner. Another witch. The witch that Olivette needed to bind. Her power is strong—certainly worthy of the curse Olivette placed on her. Olivette was unwise to use the borrowed power in such a way. Or perhaps she was not strong enough to wield it.  

All of this, however, is mere triviality to Beira's purpose.

"Why have you summoned me, mortal? You know what I seek."

"Aye, I do, Your Majesty," the witch says, bowing her head in deference, but keeping her hands up to maintain the wards. "I wish to help you in that endeavor. I have the witch, Olivette."

"And the girl?"

The girl quakes but stands tall with her chin out; her hand tightens on the grip of her sword. She opens her mouth to speak, but the witch shakes her head slightly.

"She is merely an assistant," the witch explains. "She is no threat to you and wants no compensation or deals for her help in this matter, just to go in peace when the transaction has ended."  

Beira nods. "Olivette. Where is she?"

The witch nods at the girl, who scurries to the side of the room and picks up a clear box. Bowing her head, the girl approaches and sets the clear box by Beira's feet.

Beira casts her eye down to what the girl has presented. "What vermin is this?"

"Sadly, Olivette had a bit of a magical accident and she is now stuck in the form you see before you."

Beira gnashes her teeth. "This is worthless to me."

The witch nods. "Alas, it is what the bargain demands, as far as I understood it, not having been a party to it at the beginning. Olivette's life for the power to bind me so long as the curse should last. And here she is, tail and all."

Beira scowls. The witch is right. There was no clause about the condition Olivette must be in when Beira came to collect.

Gathering up herself, the box, and the air around her in a cold gust, Beira leaves the witch and the girl, returning to The Being. Its tentacles and tendrils open again in welcome, guiding her through to the other realms.

In her cage, the rodent squeaks and scratches in fear. _Please, please no!_ she cries.

Beira turns her eye to Olivette as she settles back on her throne. "I might have use for you yet, little one."

The rodent shudders and retreats to the farthest corner of her cage. Beira's cackle echoes in the cavernous room, shattering icicles.

What fools these mortals be.

**Author's Note:**

> EPILOGUE: Rowena takes Claire out for martinis. They have a grand old time and become BFFs.
> 
> \-----
> 
> My knowledge of Beira comes entirely from [Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beira_\(mythology\))...
> 
> \-----
> 
>  
> 
> Written for Coldest Hits:  
> [Here was June's prompt and rules](http://spncoldesthits.tumblr.com/post/174942170569/spncoldesthits-luchador-wrestlers-eldritch). 
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated!
> 
> My other works (sorted by series for easier navigation):  
> [Grey's works](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/series)  
> Come visit me on Tumblr! @[grey2510](https://grey2510.tumblr.com/)
> 
> NOTE TO MAYA: I'm submitting two fics but I'm not playing for keeps, so just combine my points. :)


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